


A Blacksmith's Hands

by sapphirebluerubyredroses



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirebluerubyredroses/pseuds/sapphirebluerubyredroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Glancing down at her hands, she let her eyes wander over them. They were calloused and worn, bruised and cut, scarred and toughened. Did her hands look like a blacksmith’s hands? Did they look like the hands of a knight? Of a mother? Or maybe they looked like the hands of a killer?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blacksmith's Hands

' _Arya has the hands of a blacksmith_.'

Septa Mordane's words slipped placidly into Arya's mind, not sharp and harmful as they had been when she'd first heard them. She stood in the forges, watching the blacksmith work over her new sword in her chest bindings, riding pants and boots.

Glancing down at her hands, she let her eyes wander over them. They were calloused and worn, bruised and cut, scarred and toughened. Did her hands look like a blacksmith's hands? Did they look like the hands of a knight? Of a mother? Or maybe they looked like the hands of a killer?

"My lady, why don't you go to the tavern and have a cup of wine? These forges are hot and dirty," her apprentice suggested, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as he continued stoking the fire.

Shaking her head, Arya elbowed him out of the way and started on the fire herself. "No, this place suits me just fine. I'm in no mood to deal with drunks. A plum would be lovely though."

The teen jumped at the chance to check out the market. "I will go fetch you one now!"

"And yourself one as well," she called after him, "And find some silk to take back to Sansa!" He was already gone though, and she wondered if he had even heard a word she'd said. Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "If only he was as eager to learn as he was to explore."

"Not to pry, my lady, but that boy seems a bit too old and you far too young for you to be his mother," the blacksmith said, not a question, but not a comment that Arya was unfamiliar with.

"You would think," Arya said, focusing on her work, "But he is my son, in blood and name. I may look quite young, but I assure you, I am of the relatively normal age for him to be my son, though I do admit, I am a bit young." She also knew the next question on the man's lips.

"Pray tell, why does he address you as 'my lady' and not 'mother'?" The steel beneath his hands sang discordantly as his hammer drove into it. It was an ugly song, not as beautiful as one blacksmith she knew.

"He is ignorant of his parentage," she told him simply.

The man's hands stilled, eyes finding her. "Why?" His hands were also quite ugly. Lumpy and misshapen from a form of disease she was unfamiliar with. The skin was blotchy with heat, and mottled from being caught in the fires too often. They were so unlike the gracefully graceless hands full of an unparalleled strength. The hands that had palms covered in callouses and scars, but smooth on their backs.

Blinking slowly, Arya looked up at him. "Would you want your mother to be a knight who left your father to finish what she'd started? Or would you want your mother to be a proper lady, a lady married and giving you siblings?"

His eyes drew together in confusion. "A proper lady."

"Exactly."

"Landen, I'm back with the steel ore. They had a better selection this time, but still not as good as I would have liked. We need to find a new supplier. If you could start sorting this, I'll take over what you're doing," a familiar voice to Arya's ears called out as the forge door creaked open. A tanned, muscular man entered, dropping two full baskets by the wall. Dirt and soot streaked down his pants, and his black hair was a tousled mess.

Standing, Arya wiped her hands down the front of her pants. "You need a haircut as much as ever," she said, self-consciously running her palms over her well muscled, but stretch mark marred stomach.

"Oh, I apologize. Welcome…" His words fell away as he turned, eyes running over her and recognition widening his eyes. "Arya-" he choked on her name.

Her apprentice and son burst into the forge, a grin on his face, a swath of deep purple fabric over his arms that were filled with plums. "My lady, they gave me a good many," he called, moving toward her with his head held high and shoulders back with pride at completing his task.

Arya groaned internally as Gendry's mouth slipped open. He saw his ebony hair and green eyes and features mirrored in the teen before him. "Shit," she muttered, placing a hand on her son's head as she turned him to face Gendry. "Aiden, this is Gendry Waters. Gendry, this is Aiden Stark."

"Pleased to meet you, sir!"

…..

"Why didn't you tell me?" Gendry shouted late that afternoon when Landen had finished her sword and had volunteered to take Aiden for a more in depth tour of the market and little city. His familiar green eyes flashed with anger, strong hands clutching the back of a chair.

They stood in the room Gendry claimed as home above the forges. Arya ran a wet stone across the edge of the sword, grinding her frustrations into the blade. "Mayhap because I was unaware until my fourth skipped moon had passed."

"You should have come back and found me."

"I hadn't finished what I left to do."

"And yet, here, thirteen years later, I just now find out I've fathered a bastard. A boy that wouldn't be labeled as a bastard if you hadn't let your pride and anger govern your actions." Gendry's words were like the edge of her sword, clean cutting and leaving deep wounds beneath her skin.

"You left first," she whispered.

"And then I came back to find you! We were happy for a short time! We could have still been happy!" Gendry yelled, releasing the chair just to run his hands agitatedly through his hair.

The wound was bleeding, new blood and blood from an older wound. Her voice was quiet and small as she whispered, "Is it impossible for us to be happy now?"

Gendry was silent for a moment, huffing like a tense bull, his anger raging and warring against something stronger within him. "Does he even know? Did you even tell him?"

Arya was unable to meet his eyes. "When he was old enough to ask, I told him that I had saved him from one of the many I meant to send to the grave after they'd killed his parents. I told him we Starks had taken him as one of our blood, and so he is a Stark."

"He doesn't know that you're his mother?" Gendry asked quietly.

A voice at the door brought ice into their veins and sealed their throats with tar. "I know that my lady is really my mother. We look and act quite alike for her not to be." They turned, finding the boy standing in the doorway with an armful of fruits and dried meat and more silk for his aunt. "But I also knew that if she hadn't told me, there must have been a reason for it. Was… was he the reason for it?" He nodded to Gendry, depositing his things across the table before setting to work on organizing them.

"No, your father in not why I never told you," Arya whispered, standing and moving to the window. She couldn't look at either of them. Their gazes were too alike. "Better for you to believe your parents are respectable, married folk who died protecting you than to know that your mother is a killer who left your father."

Aiden was silent for a long moment, running careful, calloused fingers over Sansa's fabric. "A mother who left to finish what she started and a blacksmith waiting for his wolf to return. Mother, I don't know why you would think a pretty lie would be better than the truth."

The word 'mother' rolling off her own son's tongue was more of a shock than she ever believed it would be. She'd dreamed of it, the moment he would call her his mother. She never believed her dream would burst into reality. Steadying herself on the window ledge, she stared down into the still bustling street and up at the flickering stars. "It's hard to stop a lie when you've been telling it for such a long time."

"But it is worth trying," Aiden whispered.

Breathing deeply, Arya turned to face Gendry. "Winterfell is in need of a good blacksmith. Would you be willing to return with us?" she asked, not daring to feel the hopefulness that sparked in her chest.

"Whenever have I not been willing to follow you wherever you lead?" Gendry retorted, a wry smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

Aiden leaned to the side of the table, faking retching noises, before turning and fleeing from the room. "Adults in love are so gross!" he shouted indignantly.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, yeah, I think I wrote this on the plane like three weeks ago. I don't know. I just know that it wasn't what I was supposed to be working –cough-my teen wolf fic-cough-


End file.
